


Venezia

by linguamortua



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Food, Gen, Power Imbalance, Someone Help Will Graham, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham gets lost - and found - in the confusing back streets of Venice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venezia

**Author's Note:**

> My very first work in the Hannibal fandom. I am horribly intimidated; please be gentle with me. Thanks to [mollynoble](http://mollynoble.tumblr.com) for the beta.
> 
> You can find me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com).

The narrow streets twisted and turned, picturesque and confusing and utterly alien. A map might not have helped, had one been available; there were few signs and fewer landmarks to navigate by. At first the elaborate stonework and scrolled, ancient iron balconies had enchanted Will so that mundane concerns like time had become irrelevant, but now the sun was making its way blazing way down from its zenith and he was ravenously hungry. No lunch, his water bottle long empty and his feet sore.

He was sweating through his laundry-faded shirt, dark red patches down his back and chest. His pants were inadequate, heavy and beginning to chafe at the seams. Will couldn’t be sure - he got confused, sometimes - but he thought he was a little feverish with the heat. Sunstroke, perhaps; his own fault.

After three days of exploring Venice, Will had thought himself accustomed to the sickly, sewer smell of the canals, but now in a moment of weakness he found the odour rushing over him again, bringing with it a swell of nausea. He leaned on a nearby wall, tucked into a precious patch of shade underneath a balcony. A small boat chugged by, leaving the heavy smell of diesel in its wake. Will bent forward, hinging at the hips. He took a few careful breaths through his mouth. Blood rushed into his head and he stood up slowly, wary of passing out somewhere in these deserted, labyrinthine back streets. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the sun. At least he knew which way was east, although to his shame he couldn’t say where his lodgings were in relation to any but the more obvious and central landmarks.

‘Move or die, Graham,’ he told himself around his thick tongue, and he forced himself out of his patch of shade and back into the sunlight. He would follow this canal, he decided, follow it until he found somewhere to stop and eat, and rest, or until he found someone who could direct him. Will’s Italian was practically non-existent but he had managed so far and would have to manage again.

Earlier that morning he had had the whimsical notion to leave his watch in his room; some vague romantic idea about getting lost in the city, working on instinct alone. It could therefore have been fifteen minutes or an hour later when he finally saw another person approaching. A tall man in a light suit, carrying a basket over on arm. Very sensibly, he wore a cream-coloured hat tipped easily to one side, and he touched its brim to Will as they drew close together. Will pulled up and said experimentally, ‘uh, mi scusi, signore…’

‘You’re American,’ asked the man in clear, accented English with a gentle interrogative lilt in his voice.

‘Yes.’ Will licked his dry lips. ‘I’m also lost,’ he confessed. ‘Could you tell me how to get back to the Ponte de Rialto?’

‘I could,’ the man said, ‘but I think you’re in no fit state to be out in the sun.’ He shifted his basket up his arm, carefully lifting it so as not to crumple his suit.

‘It was hotter than I expected.’

‘So I see,’ said the man, glancing at the empty water bottle hanging from Will’s left wrist by its battered grey strap. He hesitated for a moment and took in the rest of Will with a cool regard that made Will very aware of his old shoes and sweaty shirt. His curls were plastered to his face, and yet the man in front of him looked crisp and comfortable without so much as a dew of perspiration on his face. ‘I was about to take my lunch,’ the man said, finally. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me, and afterwards we can find your way home.’ Will wanted to refuse, but his stomach protested loudly at the mere thought of walking away from lunch. The painful sunburn on his face made blushing irrelevant, but still Will writhed internally and tried to work out how to accept the invitation with an equally courteous air. In the face of the man’s old-world charm and pristine attire, he was reduced to mumbling his thanks and extending a hand to introduce himself.

‘My name’s Will,’ he said. ‘Will Graham.’ The man’s hand was strong and dry in his own sweaty palm.

‘Hannibal Lecter,’ he said. Not an Italian name, that was for sure. He took Will’s arm in a faintly proprietary way and led him down a side street until they came to a tiny, shady courtyard with a tree growing in its centre. A few lazy bees buzzed around some planters of flowers, but otherwise it was as empty as the streets had been. Hannibal brushed off a stone bench and sat, unbuttoning his jacket and gesturing Will to sit with him. He opened his basket between them. Will stood for a moment, rubbing his arm where Hannibal had touched him. He felt obscurely honoured, which in itself was as troubled as an unsolicited touch would usually be to him.

‘It’s your lunch,’ said Will, suddenly feeling shy. The windows around the courtyard were all shuttered against the sun but he had the strange feeling that eyes were upon them. ‘I don’t want to deprive you.’ Hannibal paused in the middle of pulling out water and wine and raised his eyebrows.

‘I won’t be deprived. By a fortuitous coincidence there is plenty of food for two.’

‘Were you meeting someone?’

‘My lunch companion is indisposed,’ explained Hannibal discreetly. He opened out layers of waxed paper like blooming flowers. Nestled under the waxed packets were a collection of small plastic boxes. Will watched, fascinated and dizzy with heatstroke, as Hannibal unpacked lunch with deft fingers. ‘Drink,’ he told Will, handing him a glass of water. ‘You’re badly dehydrated.’

‘Are you a doctor or something?’ Will asked. He gulped down the water, cool if not cold from recent refrigeration. The glass was refilled. He drained it again.

‘I used to be.’

Will watched in silence as his new acquaintance laid out their lunch with a grace that spoke to long years of practice. His head still hurt despite the water, and he was suffused by a feeling of floating slightly outside himself and observing from a distance. He and this Hannibal, the basket companionably between them, and a backdrop of ancient architecture and summer flowers. It made for a surreal tableau.

Hannibal handed him a plate. It seemed quite solid in his hand. This was real, Will told himself. The food was arranged in a bright circle around a cluster of dark olives - a study in controlled casualness. Will selected an olive. It burst into a cool rush of salt on his tongue. Some kind of dried meat followed, smoky and rich and shaved so thin that it almost melted away in his mouth. Cubes of crumbly, lemony cheese and yellow tomatoes, sweet and fresh. Will tried to eat slowly, with proper appreciation and good manners, but breakfast must have been at least seven hours ago. Before he knew it, the plate was empty and he was sucking salt and juices from his sticky fingers. When he looked over, Hannibal was eyeing him with a subtle but undeniable expression of amusement. He had intelligent, piercing eyes in an austerely handsome face. This was he looked at Will made him a little nervous; he felt uncouth, uncivilised, unprepared for decent social interaction.

‘You were hungry.’

‘It was - it was very good. It was delicious. Thank you.’

Hannibal inclined his head and sipped wine. He hadn’t offered Will any. It was obvious why. Will rested his head back against the wall and let his eyes close briefly, enjoying the shade, and the near-silence. He may have slept; it was hard to tell, in his dreamlike state. Hannibal touched his wrist lightly and he opened his eyes to a pair of small pastries, soaked in honey.

‘Cartellate,’ supplied Hannibal. ‘Traditionally made with fig syrup, but the figs were very disappointing this year.’ The corners of his mouth twitched in irritation, as if the figs had deliberately conspired to displease him. The pastries were perfect, light and sweet and flaking away in Will’s fingers. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. Hannibal wiped his own fingers on his handkerchief, his pale linen suit spotless.

 _Who are you?_ Will wanted to ask. _Who the hell are you, with your vague accent and your suit and your god damn lunch basket? Who were you going to meet? What kind of a name is Hannibal? Do you live here? Why aren’t you a doctor any more? Am I dreaming this?_

He opened his mouth, thinking about enquiring into Hannibal’s life, but even as he did so he saw something like a shutter come down. Hannibal’s polite veneer melted away, his face becoming a mask. For a strange, paranoid moment, Will imagined that the man had read his mind. Hannibal averted his gaze and packed the remnants of their meal back into the basket. He stood, buttoning his jacket and adjusting his shirt collar. Will stood with him, wondering if he’d been so transparently curious that Hannibal was going to punish him by leaving him here. The sun had moved as they ate, and it was shining through the branches of the tree in the centre of the courtyard, casting a sudden, ominous pattern of shadows across Hannibal’s face like a looming forest canopy. Will thought about a trail of breadcrumbs leading him home.

‘Shall we walk?’ Hannibal said, and started, clearly expecting Will to follow. And of course Will did, trailed along next to him along the canals and the winding back streets. Hannibal did not make conversation, and Will was unwilling to intrude having so clearly tipped his hand and been rebuffed.

They came around a corner and there was the Ponte de Rialto, arched and lovely in the late afternoon sun. Folk strolled along it arm-in-arm and the sounds of the city were once again audible, the bustle and the canal traffic and the hawkers all contributing to the noise. Will felt a great rush of relief. Soon he’d be back in his rented rooms, cool and modestly furnished; he could drink his fill and lie down with the windows open to let in the breeze. He could almost feel it, already.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and he turned to make proper goodbyes.

Hannibal was already gone.


End file.
